Mr. Anderson says that the readers of the Enquirer—the city’s paper of record, he says—should know that I was Lafcadio Hearn’s lawful wife, not that woman in Japan.

Yes, Mr. Anderson did tell me her name, Miss.

Yes, I know about their children.

Three boys and a girl, Mr. Anderson said. I’ve tried to picture them in my mind, but I can’t see them. I’ve never seen any Irish-Greek-Japanese people in Cincinnati. Don’t know if they would be welcome here, truth be told. Pat always did claim that he was of mixed blood, the child of Rosa of the Orient and Charles of the Accident.

Occident, Miss? I’m sure you’re right.

I don’t begrudge the Japanese woman for the years that she had with Pat or for the children he gave her. She shouldn’t begrudge me for being his rightful heir. I told Mr. Anderson not to ask the court for all of Mr. Pat’s money, only what’s rightfully mine.

What would I want her to know, Miss? You think they read the Enquirer in Japan, Miss?

Well, I would be honest. I would say to her that there were side women before her. Some of them were probably right here in Cincinnati. He had them down in New Orleans too, I’ve no doubt. But their stories are their stories, and her stories are hers. I’m not here to take away the man that she or anyone else had in their lives. I’m here to claim the man who was mine.

Yes, Miss, I knew that Pat had gone off to New Orleans.

I didn’t know right away because, as you can see, there was no other writing on his last note but what was on the gravestone.

About half a year after Pat had gone away, he sent a man to the house to give me the address of where to find him.

Yes, I was still living in the same house then, Miss.

Pat had paid a full year’s rent for Bill and me, before he left. It must have emptied his savings, if he had any. Like I said, he wasn’t a stingy man.

“Generous and stupid” was what Charlotte called him, when I’d told her. So is your Mr. Cleneay, I’d wanted to say.

“Glad to have a roof over my head,” I said instead.

“What are you going to do now, Alethea?” she asked.

“I’m a cook,” I reminded her. “People still pay for that skill, don’t they? I’ll be giving you back the train fare as soon I find paying work again, Charlotte.”

“I didn’t mean to offend, Alethea. I don’t care one bit about the money. I want to make sure that you and Bill are taken care—”